


Quiet Night

by maholmies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maholmies/pseuds/maholmies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to the Season 1 Finale. Sherlock was never sure why, but sometimes his brain would just do things to its own accord. Like imagine John Watson naked. Complete fluff, Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Night

It was when he reached for the vest, that it happened.

The extraordinary threads intricately woven together in Sherlock Holmes' mind seemed to momentarily become slightly unwoven, coming into contact with other threads, mixing up his priorities and mixing him up for only a split second, but still mixing him up all the same. It was like everything he had ever told himself, all the things he had repeated irritably to John over the past weeks had just disregarded themselves in his mind and detached themselves from rationality. His feelings took over instead, a rare occurence for him. They were ridculously mortal; amplified feelings of guilt for getting John involved in this case and this mess with Moriarty, worry and concern for how it would turn out and devastation caused by that defeated look in his partner's eyes. He had never seen it before, even when John was ranting and raving, even when he smouldered under his mask of calm. John Watson did not often give up and his career was a clear proof of the statement. But it seemed to Sherlock at this moment in time that he had and it rested on his own shoulders, not John's. That was what hurt him the most; the fact he had did this to his friend.

And what was this, his brain making associations of being friends with John? It had done so recently, succumbing to Mrs Hudson's reasoning that a friend is someone who puts up with you through everything and helps you when you need it as soon as you need it. Friendships in childhood, he had observed, were all about playing together. Anyone could be your friend if they passed you the ball. And seeing as friendship was not a priority to him he did not see much point in developing or altering the definition further. It was set in stone.

That was, until, John came along and had to do this thing to him, where he lost all sense of direction and thought and the only thing that plagued his mind was the good Doctor himself. Or the bad Doctor because, clearly, he was doing it on purpose. It was this new psychology process, something he had picked up when he was abroad. He was using it on Sherlock and looking for results. So Sherlock gave him none. But as time went on and John's intentions seemed nothing but pure, he had to face harsh reality that maybe thinking of John in the way he did was down to something else, something different. It wasn't something all that noticeable.

It only happened sometimes. The butterflies, the sudden urge to do something he shouldn't, noticing stuff he shouldn't have been like how handsome his friend was or how he walked, talked, ate, even slept. Maybe if Mrs Hudson was there all the time she'd have noticed, but John himself didn't. At least, he acted as if he didn't. Sherlock often wondered if John himself felt the same way. Perhaps he did, but he could never work up the nerve to ask in case he didn't. There was only one thing to do.

He googled it, that night. _How come I think of my partner often?_  Then he deleted it immediately, it sounded too off. That wasn't what he did...he only did that sometimes...

He tried again. _My partner forces the release of adrenaline which reduces blood flow in my stomach_. He stared at the screen for a few minutes. It wasn't right, still. None of it was right anyway. His feelings weren't right. There was no logic. It was pointless and stupid. It was ridiculous. He didn't need it in his life and he never would because he didn't feel like this, he wasn't supposed to and it was damn ridiculous. He clenched his fist and struck down, trying to regain some sense of calm. His frustration fell upon the keyboard, the side of his hand typing a string of letters and numbers and punctuation as he pounded the keys. He added, as an afterthought, _I KEEP ENVISIONING MY PARTNER NAKED AND I DON'T WANT TO, HOW DO I TURN THIS OFF?_ Then he deleted it all painfully slowly.

One more time. _Symptoms of falling in love._

And that's what he thought it was. Not. The symptoms matched but he knew better than anyone that there was more than just one possibility. Maybe his brain was just making a mockery of him because he worked it too hard. Maybe he was just overreacting. There were countless explanations for his strange behaviour. After all, it didn't change anything between them. They still shared lodging and they still solved cases. They were still friends. And this friendship had lead them to this almost empty leisure centre beside this totally empty pool. His brain was doing it again; it was weaving the threads wrong. Because he felt sick and he felt afraid for John. He wasn't supposed to care about other people. Caring didn't help solve cases. That's what he had told John. That's what his brain had disregarded. His disgust at Moriarty wasn't even that surprising, but it worried him tot think that he actually cared about the idiot enough to despise him. That was another thing his brain did to its own accord. When Moriarty left, he rushed to John to rip off the vest. He hated it, that ugly thing that never seemed to lose his attention, even when he was looking at something else because he was aware of its presence and where it was and why it was there and he hated the damn thing.

He hated it. He hated having to tear it off violently in the darkened building and slide it across the floor. He hated how at that moment, his brain began to unravel again and he warned it not to but it didn't listen, his central nervous system was laughing gleefully as it told his hands to brush up against John's chest, his fingers to curl around his jumper and take fistfuls of the material in his hands and finally but definitely not the least for their lips to come together briefly, the warm and familiar scent of the doctor sending a shiver down his spine. As quickly as he had done it, he had pulled away. John stared at him in disbelief, his shock splashed across his face openly. John was not expecting it, he did not see a reason for it to happen. But to say he didn't like it wouldn't be entirely the truth, so he didn't say so.

He did as he did with all things he did not want to face; he simply did not address it. He simply let Sherlock try and stammer a few words out, then give up. He watched silently as Sherlock took out his phone, calling for the police saying that Moriarty and his sniper had fled but there was still a bomb in the building that would have to be disposed of. And he pretended his knees did not buckle slightly when the taller man pressed his lips against John's.

Life resumed as normal over the next day and the day after that and the days to follow, except with no cases to solve. John busied himself getting shopping, going to work, fetching things for Mrs Hudson, reading the newspaper. But never seeing Sarah. Sherlock had already deduced that they had decided to end it but still remained friends, as John was not in a bad mood after work so clearly they were still aquaintances at least and nothing awkward went on. But then, maybe it did, because he was awkward all the time when he was home. Sherlock was too, except he was also angry at something. He ripped up his oxford pocket dictionary, proclaiming to no one in particular that he never needed it anyway and it was pointless. He danced on the table until it broke, smiling with satisfaction for two whole hours afterwards. He stomped around in nothing but a robe for a while until he realised Mrs Hudson might not appreciate it, then he pulled on a pair of boxers and resumed his stomping. He was irritated, frustrated and helpless all the while doing these things.

At first Sherlock put his agitation down to this boredom, to this utter uselessness that came with sitting about the flat, but he knew he was just kidding himself. The real reason was the awkwardness that invaded every corner of the room when he and John were together, the silence that he had failed to break just as easily as he had the table. Of course, they chatted. "You want tea, Sherlock?" "John, did you see the table?" But nothing really happened between them. It was all small talk and it was all pointless. Sherlock liked to skirt around the pointless things and John liked to avoid them entirely if possible. For a while, neither of them spoke of the big elephant that sat in the middle of the room. They watched John's crappy TV, they passed remarks about it that seemed to go unnoticed by the other party but in reality they were lavishing in the luxury of each other's words in case they didn't hear any more for another two hours.

It was one evening in front of the television that Sherlock finally gave in to his stupid brain and angled himself slightly towards John, so that he looked interested but not eager, and began to talk hesitantly. "...John. I just wanted to-" He could barely get five words out before he was interrupted by John, who was slouched towards the TV, his legs slightly parted and his hands behind his head, indicating he couldn't care less. Of course he could. Would he tell Sherlock that? No way.

"You're wrong," he said simply. Sherlock waited for him to elaborate, the noise of the set drowning out the tension but not eliminating it entirely. John sighed. "I know what you're about to say and you're wrong. You're going to say you're sorry, you didn't mean to do it, it meant nothing. But that's a lie, isn't it? Am I right for once?" The last bit was slightly sarcastic and it stung a little, but neither of them acted as if it did.

"My answer to that question depends on your opinion of the answer," Sherlock replied dismissively, turning back to the television. John did not offer him any words in return. He turned his head to look at him, a steely glare fixed on his face, burning holes in the mop of dark hair and trying to meet the light eyes that just wouldn't look at him again. He turned his head back to the television. He sat there staring at it, pretending to be interested. He wasn't. The silence extended across the room and sent them back into the awkwardness and their avoidance of the topic. _Sherlock Holmes kissed John Watson!_

The mounting quiet suddenly got too much for Sherlock. He felt as if he was going to suffocate, as if he needed to knock the wall down between them and _talk,_  for God's sake. He knew John wouldn't listen to him from across the room, especially if he was avoiding the topic. The next thing John knew, Sherlock had leaped across the table and sat in the only place he could find, and that happened to be on top of the doctor himself. John almost choked on the air he was breathing as his friend's weight landed on his legs. Sherlock sighed, trying to work out the look on John's face. Was he surprised? Unsure? Disgusted? 

In reality, John was quite relaxed, despite their position. The proximity was a little too close for his liking, their eyes meeting and no escape to look away because Sherlock's face was the only thing he could see. He tried looking at his hair, his bone structure, his ears, but then his gaze always wandered back to his eyes that were always analysing him, always deducing something about him. In the split second it took Sherlock to land in his lap, he had braced himself for the uncomfortable. But there was none. Both tried to speak, but the situation would not allow it.

Instead, neither of them said anything, simply looked at every bump and line, memorised every dip and drop in each other's face. Sherlock's hands were placed gently on John's forearms and although he was not used to it he was comfortable with the situation. His feet were tucked in at either side of John's legs. He wanted to speak, but no words could amount the peace he felt at that moment. So instead he relished in the moment he had, feeling his friend's warmth through his shirt. Sherlock was finally the one who broke their barrier of quiet.

"Why'd she break up with you?" Sherlock eventually muttered the words, barely audible, but John heard them. They washed away the content feeling he experienced and brought back memories of the days gone past, drawing out a sigh from his slightly parted lips. Of course he already knew. John offered him a wan smile.

"Well, she gave me a list." He said it so casually that it even worried him that he didn't care all that much. "Firstly, I spent too much time solving puzzles with you. We didn't get on anymore. I was always too distracted. I kept just leaving her. She makes a fair point, but I can't say I care anymore." It was the first truly honest and open thing John had said in days. It was nice to get it off his chest and it was nice to think that someone cared. To think, not to know. He was never sure anymore. Sherlock nodded in understanding. He watched John's eyes shift again, relaxing, still taking in the man in front of him. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do next, but whatever his stupid brain concocted it ended up having him lean forward ever so slightly.

"I see," he murmured softly. His hands got something of a grip on John's forearms, a gentle one to steady him, and braced himself for what he was about to say. "Well, she's missing out." He felt his friend's heart rate quicken, his breathing growing more eradicated. He couldn't blame John. He had never been this close to another person before himself, least not someone who made him feel so different, and he was already shaking slightly. John pretended not to notice.

"Wh...what do you mean?" he questioned. He was genuinely a little confused. One minute they were friends, the next minute it was awkward, the next it was timeless staring at each other. Surely they hadn't progressed to something else. Sherlock leaned forward a bit more so that he was level with John's right ear, his lips almost touching it. John inhaled sharply, trying to keep himself from shivering.

"Because," Sherlock whispered this time, taking in a long, deep breath and smiling to himself. He closed his eyes, trying to get the words out evenly without a mistake or a stammer. "I bet that if you had actually kissed back, you'd be a hell of a good kisser." It took a minute for this surprising revelation to sink in. John had to physically stop his mouth from falling open, a shiver finally wracking him for a few seconds. He knew, somewhere deep down, that the kiss had meant something - but he wasn't sure to whom - he or Sherlock? He had come to the conclusion it was himself. And if it was both of them, then...

Sherlock had came to the same conclusion as well. He pulled his head back slightly so they could make eye contact. They both knew then and there that the opinion of the answer to the question John had previously asked was that he approved of the kiss, he liked the kiss as much as the other had and it did mean something. It was almost overwhelming, the lover's relief he felt, and, looking at John in realisation and having the look mirrored back at him, he carefully and slowly leaned over and kissed the spot on John's neck below the ear that had just been tickled by his warm breath. He felt John's strong arms around him, rubbing his back. For a second it all seemed so surreal, so bizarre. Then Sherlock realised that his crazy, slightly unwoven brain had did exactly what he wanted it to do. The smile of satisfaction returned to his face as John cuddled him without a word.

This was definitely better than the table.


End file.
